Albert
Einstein,” Kurtis said.
“Don’t
worry, Scott,” Edgar reassured him. “We’ll just go over and moon the guy. Bug
him a little.”
“Oh, he’ll
like that all right,” Kurtis said. “Give him a nice whiff of his favorite food.
I mean, don’t do the fag any favors.”
“This room
is suffocatin’,” Craig said. “Let’s get out of here.”
He slid open
the sliding glass door and stepped outside. Everyone tumbled after him, though
Edgar hung behind a moment and Mike watched him take a small glass vial from
his pocket. He uncapped it, touched it to his fingertips, then dabbed himself
behind the ears. Mike smelled the strong odor he’d caught from Edgar all
day—the hippie, Alt-School smell.
“What is
that?” he asked.
“Patchouli
oil. You want some?”
Mike
wrinkled his nose, shook his head.
“It’s for
protection, attracting money . . . and sex.”
“Sex?”
“Yeah.
Drives girls crazy.”
Mike put out
a finger. “Maybe a little.”
It didn’t
smell that bad.
6
It was good
to get outside again, into the air, especially since he regretted the patchouli
oil immediately. It made his eyes water and his nose begin to itch and run. He
didn’t feel much like an adventure now, not with these guys. It was becoming
pretty obvious that no girls were going to turn up. They wouldn’t be acting
like this if there were. Going to bother queers wasn’t going to get him any
closer to his first lay—not the kind he was hoping for, anyway.
He was half
tempted to walk away from them, go back to the new house and stare at the moon
on his wall. He thought Scott would probably come along, but then he saw Scott
arguing with Edgar over what they should do and say when they got where they
were going. He was laughing, having a great time. Mike kicked himself mentally.
How much excitement did they have in their lives anyway? He spent most of his
time wishing for something to happen; and now here it was, happening, and he
was already trying to get out of it.
Screw it.
Screw fear.
Besides, it
was dark. It wasn’t like Sal would see his face—or even his ass—in this light.
Nobody was going to catch them. He’d been doing this sort of thing all his
life. When it came to pranks, he was practically a pro.
Dried grass
hissed in a warm wind along the embankment. All the houses were on one side of
the street, facing undeveloped land on the other. Barbed wire marked the
boundary. Most of the homes were dark, but he could hear the steady thud, thud, thud of disco up
ahead; the only sign of life in the development. As they got closer to the
sound, he saw Sal’s black van sitting in a driveway.
The seven
boys stopped in the middle of the street.
“Somebody go
ring the bell,” Craig said.
For a
paralyzing moment, Mike was certain they would choose him.
“Mad-Dog,”
said Kurtis.
“Yeah-yeah-yeah!”
Mad-Dog agreed with a sniggering laugh.
Mike
relaxed. Apparently he wasn’t cool enough to be considered even for the dirty
work.
“The rest of
you get ready,” Craig said. “About fuckin’ face!” They turned their backs to
the house, strung across the street in a straggling line like a half-hearted
human roadblock. Mad-Dog, meanwhile, scampered past the black van, up to the
door. Looking over his shoulder, Mike saw Mad-Dog capering under the porch
light, then he touched the doorbell and came tearing back to the line-up.
The muffled
music died.
“Hey,
queer!” Howard called.
“We know
you’re in there, you faggot!” Kurtis joined in. Thumbs hooked in the waist of
his trousers, still twisted around, Mike saw the door open. A man appeared in
silhouette, leaning against the doorframe looking out.
“Pervert!”
“Fucking
homo!”
“Queer!”
“Cocksucker!”
“Buttfucker!”
“Goddamn
faggot!”
“Queer!”
“Suck my
dick, you quasar!”
“Kiss my
ass!”
Sal—if Sal
it was—stayed perfectly still.
Craig said, “Now!”
The sound of
zippers and snaps broke out
Einstein,” Kurtis said.
“Don’t
worry, Scott,” Edgar reassured him. “We’ll just go over and moon the guy. Bug
him a little.”
“Oh, he’ll
like that all right,” Kurtis said. “Give him a nice whiff of his favorite food.
I mean, don’t do the fag any favors.”
“This room
is suffocatin’,” Craig said. “Let’s get out of here.”
He slid open
the sliding glass door and stepped outside. Everyone tumbled after him, though
Edgar hung behind a moment and Mike watched him take a small glass vial from
his pocket. He uncapped it, touched it to his fingertips, then dabbed himself
behind the ears. Mike smelled the strong odor he’d caught from Edgar all
day—the hippie, Alt-School smell.
“What is
that?” he asked.
“Patchouli
oil. You want some?”
Mike
wrinkled his nose, shook his head.
“It’s for
protection, attracting money . . . and sex.”
“Sex?”
“Yeah.
Drives girls crazy.”
Mike put out
a finger. “Maybe a little.”
It didn’t
smell that bad.
6
It was good
to get outside again, into the air, especially since he regretted the patchouli
oil immediately. It made his eyes water and his nose begin to itch and run. He
didn’t feel much like an adventure now, not with these guys. It was becoming
pretty obvious that no girls were going to turn up. They wouldn’t be acting
like this if there were. Going to bother queers wasn’t going to get him any
closer to his first lay—not the kind he was hoping for, anyway.
He was half
tempted to walk away from them, go back to the new house and stare at the moon
on his wall. He thought Scott would probably come along, but then he saw Scott
arguing with Edgar over what they should do and say when they got where they
were going. He was laughing, having a great time. Mike kicked himself mentally.
How much excitement did they have in their lives anyway? He spent most of his
time wishing for something to happen; and now here it was, happening, and he
was already trying to get out of it.
Screw it.
Screw fear.
Besides, it
was dark. It wasn’t like Sal would see his face—or even his ass—in this light.
Nobody was going to catch them. He’d been doing this sort of thing all his
life. When it came to pranks, he was practically a pro.
Dried grass
hissed in a warm wind along the embankment. All the houses were on one side of
the street, facing undeveloped land on the other. Barbed wire marked the
boundary. Most of the homes were dark, but he could hear the steady thud, thud, thud of disco up
ahead; the only sign of life in the development. As they got closer to the
sound, he saw Sal’s black van sitting in a driveway.
The seven
boys stopped in the middle of the street.
“Somebody go
ring the bell,” Craig said.
For a
paralyzing moment, Mike was certain they would choose him.
“Mad-Dog,”
said Kurtis.
“Yeah-yeah-yeah!”
Mad-Dog agreed with a sniggering laugh.
Mike
relaxed. Apparently he wasn’t cool enough to be considered even for the dirty
work.
“The rest of
you get ready,” Craig said. “About fuckin’ face!” They turned their backs to
the house, strung across the street in a straggling line like a half-hearted
human roadblock. Mad-Dog, meanwhile, scampered past the black van, up to the
door. Looking over his shoulder, Mike saw Mad-Dog capering under the porch
light, then he touched the doorbell and came tearing back to the line-up.
The muffled
music died.
“Hey,
queer!” Howard called.
“We know
you’re in there, you faggot!” Kurtis joined in. Thumbs hooked in the waist of
his trousers, still twisted around, Mike saw the door open. A man appeared in
silhouette, leaning against the doorframe looking out.
“Pervert!”
“Fucking
homo!”
“Queer!”
“Cocksucker!”
“Buttfucker!”
“Goddamn
faggot!”
“Queer!”
“Suck my
dick, you quasar!”
“Kiss my
ass!”
Sal—if Sal
it was—stayed perfectly still.
Craig said, “Now!”
The sound of
zippers and snaps broke out
Similar Books
